Containment Breach
by anacaoris
Summary: Alfred told himself that when he left the SCP, it was for good. But when 6'5ft and 207lbs of Russian come (literally) crashing in through his bedroom window, he's going to be forced to take up the mantle of Field Agent once more, or let the world perish at the hands of an 8-year-old Antichrist. If he and said Russian don't kill each other. RusAme, side FrUk. AU.
1. Prologue

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INPUT LEVEL 5 PRIMARY SECURITY CREDENTIALS

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Command:\users\O501_ 5153426-the name of blasphemy-128498

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AUTHORIZATION GRANTED. PRIMARY MEMETIC KILL AGENTS DISENGAGED. GOOD MORNING, O5-01

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WARNING: PARTS OF THIS FILE HAVE BEEN LOCKED.  
ADDITIONAL LEVEL 5 CLEARANCES REQUIRED TO UNLOCK.

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**Item #**: SCP-978

**Object Class**: Euclid

**Special Containment Procedures**: SCP-978 is to be confined to a specially modified containment facility in Humanoid Containment Wing 10 of Site 4. All rooms in the facility are to be equipped with security cameras. It is also to be equipped with three failsafe nuclear warheads which shall be detonated should ever SCP-978 breach containment. Access to SCP-978 for experimentation requires level 5 clearance and written approval following a thorough psychiatric profile. Subject is to be allowed access to nothing of a physical nature. The containment cell is to be placed behind a triple airlock, to avoid escape. As of Incident 012-6b, SCP-978 is no longer to be fed, as it does not appear to need sustenance to survive.

There are to be four (4) guards on duty at all times on its cell, and two (2) guards on monitor duty.

Once a month, the containment cell is to be cleaned and checked for defects. Under no circumstance will access be granted to researchers with children or other relatives under the age of 21. Any who do encounter SCP-978 are to be held under Class 3 detention for interviewing before termination.

SCP-978 has requested:

A bed (Denied)

A blanket (Denied)

Books (Denied)

Toys (Denied)

Religious Texts (Denied)

A specimen of _Micromelo undatus_ (Denied)

**Description**: SCP-978 appears to be a ███████ male, between █ and ██ years of age. The exact nature of SCP-978 is not yet known. The subject was recovered from an industrial warehouse in ████████████, Scotland, although the accent when speaking has been noted to be of British origin, specifically from West Country. Whether or not this is SCP-978's true form or a disguise is still under investigation. The subject is fully sentient and capable of speech, as well as interaction with physical objects. Subject appears to be in prime health, despite several claims of fever or stomach aches.

SCP-978 was classified as anomalous following Incident 01. Details of the Incident are under investigation by the O5 Council.

Those who come within the presence of SCP-978 find themselves pliant to its will, who monopolizes their attention. Researches with children or relatives under the age of 21 people become willing, even amongst each other, to kill or even die for SCP-978. Only one subject, is known to have survived such a battle and is currently subject to psychological evaluation by Dr. ██████. Prior subjects reported an "overwhelming feeling of need" to care for the specimen and, in every recorded case, take it into their home.

Subjects and their immediate relatives begin to show signs of euphoria and mania. Behavioral problems soon escalate to violence and religious mania presents itself. Subjects separated from SCP-978 have presented violent behavior or become near catatonic, demanding through various means to be reunited with SCP-978 immediately.

Due to the lack of information about all of SCP-978's anomalous behaviors, it is currently believed that one at least of these properties is antimemetic in nature, although this has not yet been confirmed the investigation of SCP-978 has been delegated as follows:

Assigned Members Task

O5-1, O5-8, O5-5 Identification of SCP-978's origin

O5-4, O5-7, O5-9 Amalgamationof investigation results

O5-3, O5-6, O5-2 Identificationof SCP-978's anomalous properties

**Request 1967-1**: Dr. ██ has requested access to SCP-978 vivisection. Request denied at the time, pending completion of less invasive physiological analysis on specimen

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Ah Hetalia, I thought I left you back in middle school, but here we are again, old friend.

This fic has endgame RusAme and is a fully human au, with names slightly changed to fit better the characters ethnicity. Overall I'm very proud of how I think it will go. I'll also crosspost this bad boy onto Ao3 (same username, which you can find in my profile) as I go.

Remember to comment if you like this mess!


	2. Chapter 2

_Do you ever just see something so beautiful, a sight so one-of-a-kind and world shaking, that you can't help but think "_I could die here_"?_

_The average American male has a lifespan of 78.69 years; that's 2.7 less than the UK, and 3.6 less than Canada. I know this, because I read it in the New York Times one day. In those 78.69 years, we pass through hundreds, maybe thousands of beautiful, breathtaking places, of moments where we feel infinite, powerful, fantastic. Your first concert, your first time in a roller coaster; seeing your child be born and holding them in your arms, going on your very last pub crawl before adult life fully sets in. All dizzying, all full of their own brand of serotonin highs. But only one of them, only one, we could die in. Just die in perfect happiness and regret nothing, with the lights painting us all sorts of hues and the world spinning on its axis as the color leaves our eyes._

_That wasn't Wyoming for me. Not one fucking bit. If I had to see one more mule deer or pass by another pine tree, I'd scream._

_But it was either that, or moving to some small, unknown town in the most northern part of Alaska, and I sure as hell didn't want to spend my days in freezing my dick off in Artic Fish Village, population 4.5, so Cowboy State it was. I mean, be honest, who even thinks of Wyoming when they think about the United States? That's right, no one. And if you say you do, you're a shit liar._

_But I wanted to make Wyoming that. I wanted to forget New York. I wanted to make my new home the place where I could be happy in. I wanted to one day take a look at the colorful sunset over the pine trees, when the sky is perfect, and think "_this is it, where I can die_"._

_Course by the time I almost managed that, the end of world came unannounced. Fucking rude, am I right? I didn't even finish my food. But whatever, I'm going to die soon. Hell, we're all gonna die soon. It's not the time to mope. And if I'm really going to die, it sure as hell won't be on my ass, drinking warm beer, under the shade of the fucking pine trees, in _fucking Wyoming_, of all places._

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There was only one place in Wyoming that made good surf and turf burgers, and it was all the day in Cheyenne, nearly 7 hours away from Alfred's daily comune from home to work and back. He'd made himself a promise, the day he set foot in Wyoming, to not stray farther than Alcova if necessary, but the burger place — creatively named Surf 'n Turf — called him. Plus, the cook, this sweet, kinda ditsy guy who always have the food this touch from his homeland of Poland, was soft on Alfred, and always made sure to give him _oscypek _and cranberries to take, which were absolutely worth breaking his diet _du jour _for. So, he made the time to take the drive after work at random, half-empty Coke in hand and a six pack more on the passenger's seat of his Ford Mondeo, windows down to make up for the shitty AC, KARS-FM playing Queens of the Stone Age's best hits, trying to ignore the soul-crushing boredom and still remaining paranoia he felt every day since he moved.

"Shrunken head I love to ado-o-o-o-ore. B-movie, gimme some gore." Alfred slipped on a pair of black sunglasses to combat the bright sun. He sounded like a dying walrus, belting out the song but failing to match the tune. "Gimme toro, gimme some more. Duh duh duh, pow pow, yeah!"

He banged the steering wheel along to the beat. The road was empty save for him, so Alfred didn't mind if his car whizzed side to side once in a while. It was a perfect sunshiney kind of day, with everything turned mellow shades of yellow and orange. Even his own hair was being turned in the light. Alfred sneaked a glance at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked so different from the New Yorker he'd been so shortly before — chic square glasses traded for larger, rounder ones that slipped down the bridge of his pointed nose; freckles and sunspots paled by his lack of time spent outside, until they were almost invisible. His newer, slightly longer hairstyle favored him, but the summer blonde roots where beginning to come out, contrasting against the darker, almost brown, dye. In this light, he looked so painfully much like —

"Mattie?"

Mattie was already in the backseat, filing the few nails that remained on his left hand. The shattered bones of his wrist broke through the flaps of skin. His good eye — which had once been that shade of hazel that changed with the mood or season or light, but was not a filmy gray — looked at Alfred through stringy dark blonde waves. The cracked, purplish lips trembled as they opened. _The rearview mirror distorted him _, Alfred told himself, _he never looked like a fucked up monster, even if you teased him about it. It's just trauma fucking with you _.

He felt his sweaty palms slip against the steering wheel, body moving without him meaning to, reaching for his brother. Mattie cocked a partially singed brow. Fluid, dark and watery, poured from his mouth. That was going to stain the upholstery.

"Swerve," he said in a perfect voice, like his throat hasn't been torn to shreds by shrapnel. Then, when Alfred still continued to gawk, he screamed with a voice that seemed to come not from the body but from the radio, of all things, "Swerve you fucking idiot!"

Alfred snapped back to reality. Something, indiscernible under the sun, was standing in the middle of the road.

He turned around and swerved just in time, forehead smacking the steering wheel as he all but crashed on a pine tree. There was a sound like several things breaking, and he could only hope it was his skeleton and _not _the car. Alfred groaned and rubbed his forehead, fingers coming to his face with the tips stained red and bloody.

"At least the fucking trees served for something. Shit, Mattie couldn't you warn me before?" But Mattie was already gone. "Typical. Thanks anyway, for… making me crash."

Thankfully the car still worked. Alfred reversed easily, adjusting his seat belt so it would ease away from the nasty burn his collarbone had, and went back to the road.

It was behind him now. He wanted to believe the thing had run when Alfred almost hit it. Instead they — the shape was clearly humanoid — were now facing his trunk, their position eerily resembling those paper chains in the shape of people he used to make in first grade. Alfred leaned back, bracing himself on the other seat, ready to hit reverse and run them over if another one popped up and grabbed its hand.

The radio turned to static. "Al… Al… fred… Al… lis… ten."

The thing opened its mouth, which parted into an impossibly wide grin. Alfred knew that because he could see the marble white teeth reflect the light. A tiny hand raised up and waved at him. Another shadow joined him, this one taller, its form familiar. It waved as well, glasses shining and obscuring his eyes. Then he blinked, and the things were gone.

Nothing happened for a moment. Alfred felt bile rise in his throat. Where the thing had stood was now a scrap of something, and his instincts fought between going out and investigating and getting the hell out of there._You're dreaming, Wyoming is getting to you. Mattie, that thing, they're all nightmares. The heat, the trees, the lack of sleep, you're just imagining things _. Yet he couldn't move, couldn't turn from that spot.

The radio host's annoying screaming broke him from his reverie. "And that was Millionaire by Queens of the Stone Age. Stick around for the next song and maybe you can win the chance to see tribute band SICK SICK SICK live this week!"

Alfred's stomach growled in protest, reminding him of his mission. "Fuck this. I need some food."

Surf 'n Turf was already full with its usual clientele — wayward tourists going to better places, hungry locals and the occasional gaggle of students who had nowhere better to be on a school night. The place was the same as it was everyday too, brightly colored and with fairy lights and flowers strung all over the place, more Miami than SoCal. A straw blonde head peeked out from the kitchen at his arrival.

Like Alfred, Feliks felt misplaced, although his feeling was due to being an emigre. Alfred always said he'd fit more in with the folks at Brooklyn than he ever would in sleepy Wyoming, with his exuberant personality. Feliks at least liked the place, where Alfred couldn't be bothered to care, yet both were joined by the feeling of utter boredom the city gave them, and he wasn't ashamed in saying Feliks was his only friend in the entire state. He was so sweet, able to win everyone over with his smile and singing and his breath always smelling like that fruity dessert he loved; was it kissel or kisiel?

Alfred tipped his glasses in greeting, Feliks already running to meet him at the counter, offering him something to taste.

"Open up," he sang, and unceremoniously shoved a plastic spoonful of something clear as river water far inside Alfred's mouth. "Come on _mój żabko _, I've seen you put bigger things in your mouth and not gag."

A family gasped at Feliks and Alfred offered them a pacifying look as he swallowed the offered treat. It was sweet, viscous, with a strange, familiar taste.

"Ack, hey! I… oh, that tastes really good. Wow."

" _Miód _," Feliks' eyes were sparkling, as if he'd had a great a great secret he'd just shared with Alfred. "Honey. Orange blossom. Great isn't it? I just loved the flavor. I'd only eaten alfalfa and sweet clover honey before, but I think this one is my favorite. I've been using it to give the bacon a new — Are you alright? You look pale, and your forehead…"

Alfred blinked a few times. He was more attentive to Feliks talking, but he was still out of sorts after the whole incident. "Yeah I'm good, nothing serious, don't go calling the ambulances. Just crashed on the way here. Had to avoid a… stray dog. Big, big stray. Like, husky-pitbull-something mix stray. _Huge _."

His nervous laughter made clear how much of a bad liar he was, but Feliks only granted him a sympathetic smile and touched his forehead, muttering something in Polish. "Put some Amol on that."

"You say that for everything that happens." It was better than an interrogation though. Alfred fished his wallet and phone out. "It's not that bad."

Feliks was already getting Alfred's order. "If you didn't get hurt so much then I wouldn't say it. You're making me turn into my grandmother. Shit, I'm gonna have to call Babcia on you and ask her to straighten you up."

The bag of takeaway smelled delicious. Alfred's mouth watered. One of the perks of always eating there was that Feliks knew his order and arriving time. No reason to wait.

"Now eat all of that. You already look like you're going to have a breakdown, I don't want you passing out."

"I am not —" Feliks gave him an incredulous look. _You don't have to tell me _, it said, _but don't think I'm stupid _. Alfred cowered and hefted the bag. "Thanks. You're the best Fee."

"Don't call me that. Oh, and have a jar of honey too. I got an extra shipment of it and I don't know what to do with half of it."

One of the part time workers helped Alfred out. The kid, with dyed green hair and a myriad of buttons pinned on their shirt, winced when she saw his car. "Shit man."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks kid."

"No problem. Don't forget the honey." The girl admired the orange label on the jar. "I've never been to California before. You think it's really all it's cracked up to be?"

Alfred grabbed the jar and weighed it. The label showed a meadow of orange trees in bloom, vintage bees zipping around the cursive loop of letters. It was a fairytale kind of picture, perfect and pristine. Alfred remembered his last time in Mill Valley, when the oranges had been in perfect bloom. A bee had stung Mattie's palm and they both had laughed, voices drowned out by gunshots.

"Nah. Trust me. It's not that great. You're much better out here."

By the time he was almost home, the sun was nearly down. Alfred munched on his burger with gusto, fingers drumming to the music. He reached to the backseat, never taking his eyes off the road.

"Want a bite, Mattie?" Not a sound. Alfred shrugged and took another bite. "More for me."

"Congratulations, Alfred Winnifred, for being the winner of contest," came the crackly voice from the radio. "Stay on the line for your prize, and in the meantime listeners, here's A Song for the Dead… _It's late enough to go driving and see what's mine. Life's the study of dying, how to do it right _."

One of the cars that passed Alfred turned the headlights at full beam, turning the windshield into a mirror. The Alfred in the reflection glared at him, bags under his eyes, mouth stained with ketchup, hair a mousy brown and gaze dulled with boredom.

"I fucking hate Queens of the Stone Age," he said, and opened the window, launching the honey out, it's jar shattering into a million tiny pieces against the road.


End file.
